Naked Girl on the Island

By then, I'd learned Celeste was not to be only a once a year birthday present, she was an enjoy-her-every-day birthday present. When I queried about not getting pregnant that first night, she went very quiet for a moment before I remembered she and Denny had no kids, although both wanted several. "I can't have kids, Lance." she's said.

"Sorry."

"A fact of life, Lance. And it wasn't Denny's fault, although he wanted 'em."

"Oh."

"So Louise and I agreed. She's going to give you lots of babies, and I'm going to help her raise them."

I guess that filled in the blank as to how long Celeste planned to live with me and my contracted wife.

Louise straightened me out on several other factors, too. According to her, we needed Celeste for those times later on for that time of the month my no longer pregnant wife was out of commission and unable to take perfect care of me. Then Celeste would stand in for her. When I asked about this schedule and the possible overlap time, Louise landed both feet on me and made it clear, I'd just have to do double duty. And that was only three-to-seven days per month because Celeste didn't have that problem. The rest of the time, they let me know, they expected to share my best.

Before long, Louise began to show some belly, which I teased her gently about. Of course, she got back at me by referring to me as Daddy Lance, and Celeste teased her, saying in just a few more months, she'd be getting a few more Celeste-only-nights a month while Louise was out of normal commission with her baby's birth. I was glad they were cousins, or the jest might have touched a few more tender spots than I wanted.

I think Mr. Pendergast had kept my women aimed at the 'bigger home' goal than I realized, because about once a month—sometimes more, sometimes less—when he came down, we had to go look at another candidate. Eventually they found one they liked, and he liked, so they took a chunk of the dowry money I'd refused but he hadn't given up on helping us with, and put some earnest money on it. After all, they were his relatives as much a mine, so what could I do?

This house wasn't all splash, but I liked its appearance, lay out, and the nice sized, attached shop. So they—and Mr. Pendergast—bought it. The twelve bedrooms promised room of all seven kids Louise had settle on, one for Celeste (who planned to be the kids nanny), a guestroom for Grandfather Pendergast, a cook Louise stole away from her father's home, an upstairs maid, a main floor maid, a chauffeur, and a gardener/handyman/pool attendant. I certainly was glad Granddaddy bought it under his business' umbrella and paid the taxes on it!

Still, once a month, we loaded everyone onto the Citation and flew north to visit him. I silently remarked to myself, the Citation was big enough to carry all my family, present and future.

Chapter 4

Over time, duties around our house took on a measure of regularity.

I brought home the bacon and took care of house maintenance and the relational maintenance my women needed,

Celeste played maid and cook and did a great job of both.

And Louise organized everything about our home and its finances. Meanwhile, she grew more 'belly bump,' obvious she'd soon become a mother. Making love with her required a few modifications to technique, but not enough to decrease my enjoyment one iota. She seemed equally satisfied with these changes—and me.

Celeste remained the same: tall, blonde, slim, beautiful, eager to please, a delight to take to bed, and a delight to simply have in my life. Yes, I had it made. Two for one, and that one (me) lived in a delightful heaven.

I suppose you could say I grew somewhat complacent, but it was complacency born of unmitigated pleasure. I had so many thoughts regarding what I found so wonderful, I just never got around to asking beyond that. It was a case of if it ain't broken, why spend time searching for hidden flaws?

***

Louise knocked on the door of the dumpy apartment the private investigator gave her the address and number of. Would she be able to pull this off? Would her belly show so much and give her away to this man who, according to her best recollection, had led her gang rape and near death in the Barely Islands area six months ago?

The door latch rattled, the door opened slightly, and a face peered around the gap.

"What you want? Who are you?"

"Matilda Pendergast, Louise Pendergast's sister."

"How come she sent you?"

"She's sick with that baby you bastards fucked her up with."

"Watch your mouth, you little bitch, or I'll bash your teeth in."

She waited a moment before saying, "Well? You gonna stand there and keep me out here in the cold or what?"

"You got the money?"

"Yeah, I got what's yours. Now, can I come in? It's cold as fuck out here." She faked a shiver.

The door swung open enough she was able to step in. God, she hoped her blonde wig stayed put. She felt as if it could come loose any moment.

He shoved her toward what appeared to be the living area, then stopped her.

"Let's see the money."

She fumbled in her purse and pulled out a wad of loose US $100 bills.

"Where's the rest of it? That's no ten thousand dollars."

"That's all Daddy could scrape up on such short notice."

"Fuck him, the bastard! He fucked me out of my gravy-train job when he bought my grandfather's plywood mill. Give me that, then go tell him if I don't get the rest by the end of the week, I'll come back, fuck his daughter to death, then find you and kill you, too."

Meanwhile, Louise dug around in her purse, came up with a couple $20's. She held them toward him. "Here. Here's some more. Take it. Please?"

He made a grab for it, but she beat him to it and faked dropping those bills to the floor.

"Fucking bitch." He stooped to pick it up, but as he did, she again reached into her purse. But this time, out came Lance's Keltec P-11. When he straightened up, he was staring into it's 9mm barrel.

"Hey, girl. You ain't gonna use that! You'll go to jail."

"Maybe. But if I do, you'll be dead first."

"That'll be murder. You'll get life."

"Like you should have gotten for my sister's rape, you asshole!" She paused a moment. "Let's see: Kidnaping, rape, and whatever they call it when you purposely leave someone marooned to die on a deserted island. I think that's life three times. They'll probably give you the chair or gas chamber for that much."

"They don't give gas or the electric chair anymore."

"You better hope!"

"Okay, come on, Lady. Suppose I just take what dough you brought and we call it even. How about that?"

"Not on your life, and you better pray for it. Now get down your knees. Let's see you pray."

He didn't appear to get the idea. Keeping back, she stuck the P-11 in his belly. "Down and pray and make it good! Now!"

He went down on his knees, trying to look around and up at her.

"Don't look at me, you prick! You want to see this pullet coming at you? Oh, that should be fun!"

"Please, Miss! Don't shoot me!" It seemed finally he'd gotten the message she intended.

"Why not?"

"I don't want to die!"

"And I suppose my sister wanted you four guys fucking her for two months? Before you left her there to die on that island?"

"It wasn't my idea."

"Bullshit. She told me what you did."

"She lied."

"You bullshit asshole. I should just shoot you now and improve the human gene pool by that much."

"No, please! I'm sorry! Wouldn't she give me a second chance?"

"Second chance? You had your second chance after all of you fucked her the first time. But no, you and your buddies just went on and on. What you think would be fair punishment for that? She damn near died out there, and now she'll spend the rest of her life raising your kid."

"Couldn't she get it aborted?"

"Not in our family. And besides, after two months, abortion's legally murder, anyway."

He was shaking his head, now.

"What?"

"Please?"

"Not on your life!" With that she moved just enough she was behind him and jabbed the pistol's muzzle against the back of his neck. "I wonder if I shot you here just right, would the bullet come out of your fuckin,' lying mouth."

"Please. Please don't kill me! I'll do anything you say."

"How about when my sister pleaded with you guys not to rape her for the hundredth time?"

"I didn't hear her."

"Yeah, I'll bet you didn't, you big prick." She jabbed the gun against him once again.

"Please, Lady? What can I do to make it up?"

"Okay, there's this little game I wanna play. And remember: If you just don't do what I say for one second, and I shoot you. Simple enough?"

"Yes! Yes!"

"Then take off your left shoe. That will buy you one minute more before I shoot you. Understand?"

He must have, because he squirmed around and a moment later, his shoe lay loose on the floor.

"Well. Looks like you really want to live one minute longer." She held up her wrist and checked her watch. "Get back into your praying position." She shoved the gun against the back of his neck, harder this time.

"Please. Lady? Didn't I do what you said?"

"Yeah, almost good enough. But I don't like listening to you piss and moan about what I'm making you do. I just want action, not listening to a worthless prick like you."

"I won't say anything."

"Damned right you won't! If I hear one more word out of you, my finger just wants to pull this trigger. Then ker-pow! And your life is over. Understand?"

He was now vigorously nodding.

"Good. Now take off your other shoe, and be quick about it! The first minute you earned is just about gone."

On it went: Next his right sock, then his left.

Followed by his grungy sports shirt, his T-shirt, and his slacks.

"Now your boxers."

"Please, lady?"

"God, you must want to die!"

"No!"

Really funny, she thought, him squirming around half on the floor, half on his knees. But he got his boxers off.

"Good, yes good. Now crawl over to that chair and sit down on it. NOW!"

She pointed at a cheesy, art-deco chair next to the dinette set. By the time he did as she said, she had the first two pairs of handcuffs out of her purse, but held in such a way he couldn't see them.

"I should just shoot you in the neck just as you sit there. Too bad you'd get blood all over this dump you live in."

He shook his head, almost violently.

"Okay, you've earned another minute. Let's see how you want to spend it, shall we? Here, put these cuffs on your right ankle, and cuff it to that chair leg, above the leg brace. NOW, PRICK!"

So he did, but jerked and pulled on it after he did so.

"Stop that!"

He stopped.

"Ah, I see you want to live a little longer. Now the other ankle."

He did so, but at the speed of defeat.

"Now, put your hands behind the chair's back. I'm going to cuff them back there. Do it! NOW!"

Moments later she had him right where she wanted him. She reached into her handbag and removed a shiny, stainless-steel device she doubted he'd ever seen.

"You know what this is?" she said, dangling it in front of him.

He shook his head.

"It's an emasculator like veterinarians use for making steers out of little bulls. It works like this," She manipulated its plier-like jaws. "See? Bet you can guess what's next. See, this one is big enough to de-ball a yearling horse, but I'm going to use it not only on your balls but your cock, too. Just cut them right off flush, like with a big pair of diagonal cutting pliers. Now, first I just gotta get my little branding iron heated red hot so I can cauterize you to stop you bleeding to death afterwards. You're going to have a long, unhappy life with no balls and no prick. I think that's fair punishment. Aren't you unlucky? And don't worry, I'll get your three buddies, too. My private detectives will find them, too."

"Spread you fuckin' knees, already. I don't want to gouge away any of the meat off the inside of your thighs."

"Ah, that's better. Now, lets slip this down over your dick and ball sack, shall we? Lean back, please. That'll make it easier for both of us, I think. How's that feel? You can answer if you don't use more that two words."

"It's cold."

"I'm sure it is. And by the way, that was three words." For that she shoved the gun hard against his neck again. "I wonder how a 9mm bullet feels as it's breaking neck bones." She ground the emasculator around in his crotch.

"Now, in case you don't know about this tool, it smashes your testicular cords before it cuts them apart. Helps to stop bleeding, I'm told. I don't know how it will work on you dick, but I'm sure it will be somewhat like that. Anyhow, when it's finished, you'll have no balls, no dick, and no ball sack. Fair enough?"

He squirmed around, jerked at the cuffs, and grunted as she again twisted the emasculator in his crotch.

"Now, I suppose I could shoot you with pain killer, but I don't want to. I want this to hurt more than anything you can imagine—like when you guys raped Louise over and over. No lube, just ram it in again and again. That huge dildo, too."

"Nooo!"

"Shut up, so I don't have to shoot you and somebody has to clean up blood after you've bled all over the place. You got any idea how much blood there is in a human body? There'll be blood all over the floor here, an inch thick when it clots up and dries." She gave the emasculator another twist.

He moaned, but said nothing.

"I suppose you still think I should give you some pain killer, but no, I won't. I won't even emasculate you quickly to get it over with before you faint from the pain. No, you big prick, I'm going to do it nice and slow, and do my best to have you faint just the moment your prick and balls drop off. And when they do, I'll put them through the garbage disposal so there's no hope of some surgeon playing hero and reattaching them. They're part of your body, anyway, so really they're just so much garbage."

She timed it about right. Although he tried to fake it, he genuinely fainted just as the final snip occurred. Too bad, though, she thought. Had he lasted a little longer, she could have cauterized him with that red-hot iron before he lost consciousness. As it was, though, he didn't bleed anywhere near enough to endanger his life.

911 got a call some hour later, and Bradley Cook was delivered to a hospital minus his balls and prick. The investigating officer never did find Cook's missing organs, but suspected he knew exactly what had happened—from the red tint in the garbage disposal. This wasn't the first rape crime punished this way in our town.

***

Three weeks later, Rapists numbers 2, 3 and 4 found in their mailboxes, envelopes return-addressed to a fictitious address in Washington, DC. Depending upon which rapist, the contents were composed similarly:

Rapist #2

By now you have probably heard or read what happened to Rapist #1, your buddy, Bradley Cook, and if you have half a brain in your head, you understand why.

My detectives are watching the rest of you, and when the time is right, something similar will happen to you. You thought you got away with it, but you didn't. Now you will pay for ruining a girl's life and all but killing her. Watch your back every minute, because we will be there. You can't escape, except by suicide (which I recommend you consider every minute).

The Blonde Emasculator

Rapist #3 let his parents get wind of his letter, and being parents of the type whose kids never did anything wrong, took the letter to the police. The police did their best to track the letter via Post Office procedural differences, paper origin, fingerprints, word-processor quirks, and printer deviations. The return address, was of course fictitious, the letter had been mailed from an Omaha, NE, US Postal drop box, no finger prints on anything, its word processor had been Microsoft Word (which has plenty of quirks and dead-ends built in), a brand and type of paper sold by nearly every office supply store in the US, and printer of a brand and model sold by the hundreds all over the country. In other words, they found no clues to point this back to the Blonde Emasculator, whoever that was.

By now, news of the incident leaked out of the police offices and quickly was tied to the hospital where Rapist #1 had been taken after the Blonde Emansculator had chopped off his sex appeal. Oh, the headlines! A week later Rapist #4 took the Blonde Emasculator's recommendation and attempted to do himself in with a butcher knife—and after making a messy job of it, succeeded. The local newspaper took to printing a front page, coded scoreboard showing condition and number of rapists and their condition:

#1Hospitalized and Recovering (minus male organs).

#2Yet unscathed

#3Under close protection (to prevent suicide)

#4Deceased (Suicide)

Each week or so, the papers ran an opinion/popularity pole contrasting the public's support of the rapists versus The Blonde Emasculator. At each vote, no one sided with the rapists.

Of course, weekly TV interviews tested the mental health of the remaining rapists, #2 being cocky in his pronouncements The Blonde Emasculator would never get him! No sir-ee! But three months later, he became a statistic as 'Hospitalized in Critical Condition'.

The Blonde Emasculator thought to herself, 'He may think he's critical, but once he's out, I may modify him more yet!'

'Close Protection' didn't save momma's-boy, Rapist #3. The Blonde Emasculator got to him as she had #1, and shortly after being released from the hospital, he too, killed himself.

Rapist #2 may have thought his ordeal was over with his release from the hospital, but he was now in a class alone except for Rapist #1. The papers hounded him, the check-out stand tabloids hounded him, the local TV news programs hounded him. And nobody wanted anything to do with him except to make a news item out of his situation. He finally moved out of town and tried to bury himself in the crowds of a bigger town elsewhere. His final crowd selection two years later was that of becoming another suicide victim.

The Blonde Emasculator did her part, seeing that his mailbox and that of #1 were kept filled with junk mail about penis enlargement products, male enhancement products, and her own brand of harassment about organizations working for less humane capital punishment for rapists.

One such organization sponsored laws eliminating any and all statutes-of-limitation for any rape crimes, including rapes committed prior to the new law.

These simple thoughts brought smiles to Louise's beautiful face, whether she wore her blonde wig or not. One thought that didn't provoke a smile was the $1 Million of Daddy's cash—a nine inch stack of $500 bills—the kidnapers made off with. The Blonde Emasculator's and Daddy's investigators said there was no hope of recovery. The kidnapers gambled a considerable amount of it away, but with the majority of it, bought into a 'can't lose' oil scheme perpetrated by the Venezuelan Government. When all the investors' money was in, the government simply 'nationalized' all the funds. Nationalization, of course, meant the government simply stole all that money in the name of 'The People'.

***

To me, Louise never once hinted at her involvement with those anti-rape groups. And I never asked. I figured she had plenty filling her mind without me intruding in there. She would soon be a mother with all that involved, and she and Celeste had plenty to work out with respect to the motherhood and nanny-hood aspects of that. New mother, new child, new mistress/nanny, and a master of the house who they both loved to keep happy. I don't know that Louise ever told Celeste all the details of her rapes, either. How do you tell someone you love as much a she loved Celeste a secret like that? Or tell me?